


Death Cancels Everything But Truth

by Kahtya Sofia (KahtyaSofia)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Future Fic, Gen, One Shot, Parthenon Prompt Table, Prompt: 03 Death of a Friend, Table: Malpomene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KahtyaSofia/pseuds/Kahtya%20Sofia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Bravo Two’s second tour of Iraq, the unthinkable happens. Brad is right there when it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Cancels Everything But Truth

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely a work of fiction. While canon facts were pulled almost entirely from One Bullet Away, I still took liberties with history. In no way is this a true representation of the death of Captain Brent Morel. However, OBA would seem to indicate he died a hero, and so this story also gives him a hero’s death.

The down side to a combat meritorious promotion to Staff Sergeant, in Brad’s estimation, was the increase in babysitting duties. It always came with a reduction in time spent being an actual Marine. He was still Bravo Two’s Alpha Team Leader, but Captain Morel – read Gunny Wynn - wasn’t letting him out front as much this tour. Instead, Brad got to send other Marines out on missions, while he stayed behind to help Mike wipe the Captain’s nose and ass.

Not that Morel was all that bad. He was no Nate, but he was a damn sight better than Captain America had been. He was smart, decisive, ballsy, and seemed to have been paying attention when Nate had tried to impart understanding and insight into the individual Marines that made up the platoon.

Few days went by that Brad didn’t think of Nate. His chest tightened when he remembered that last telephone call. Nate had been drifting since he’d left the Corps. Brad was unsettled by the absence of the drive and focus he’d come to think of as quintessentially Nate. He was afraid his knee-jerk reaction, accusing Nate of abandoning his men – of abandoning _Brad_ – had caused this.

Brad released a frustrated sigh and adjusted his weapon against his shoulder, scanning his sector. They were on a routine patrol outside of Fallujah. Hostilities were running high and good situational awareness was critical.  He fucking hated this town. It was 112 degrees at zero eight hundred. The wind blew constantly, blasting them with sand, manure, and human waste. This town fucking stunk, literally and figuratively.

He didn’t even have Person, this time, to distract him from both the tension and the monotony. Ray had been smart and gotten the fuck out.

Brad understood why Ray had gotten out. After a long talk with Nate, Brad had also understood why he’d had to get out, too. It just nagged at him, how distant Nate had seemed the last time they’d talked on the phone. There just wasn’t a fuckin’ thing Brad could do to help, from the middle of Iraq.

Brad listened to the comm chatter. The point vehicle was filled with Marines who were experienced, but were new to Bravo Two. He rode behind them, in the second vehicle, to keep an eye on them. It wasn’t official, but he’d been around long enough to recognize babysitting when he was assigned to it.

Cptn. Morel’s voice sounded over the comm. He rode with the Gunny in the command vehicle, just behind Brad’s victor. Brad still wasn’t used to hearing Morel’s voice instead of Nate’s. He wondered if that would ever change.

Rudy answered the Captain. His promotion to Team Leader had been made permanent, and he rode in the Humvee behind the command vehicle. Espera’s team brought up the rear.

Brad just had to make it another six months. His nomination for the two year rotation with the Royal Marines had been approved. He’d ship out to jolly old England just as soon as this tour was over.

If he survived it.

Brad was looking forward to the rotation, but his gut twisted at the thought of being so far from Nate for so long. That couldn’t be a factor in his decision, he knew. Nate was going to get into one of the graduate programs he was applying to. He’d be able to quit that mindless job he hated so much. Maybe then, Nate’s fire and focus would come back, and he’d once again be the man Brad … liked.

His first warning that they were coming under attack was the vapor trail of the RPG as it headed right for the lead victor. Dread clawed icily in his belly.

“Contact right, contact right!” Brad said into his mic as he lined up his M4 to identify a target. He saw nothing. His heart hammered against his ribs and blood roared in his ears, but he felt calm. His hands didn’t shake.

“Fuck!” Hasser said, as he slammed on the brakes, bringing the Humvee to a skidding stop.

In front of them, the lead vehicle was struck squarely by the RPG. The Humvee rolled off the road to the left, smoke and flames bursting out of its windows. The screams of the men inside echoed over the comm and carried through the air. Brad watched for his men to evacuate the vehicle. He swallowed down dread when no doors were flung open.

AK47 fire erupted from the berm running beside the road, but Brad could make out no targets. Rifle barrels just barely cleared the top of the berm and sprayed the victors with gunfire. A plume of dirt, accompanied by a loud boom, exploded just in front of Brad’s Humvee. Rocks and debris rained down on them. RPGs, AK fire, and now grenades.

He started to reach for his door handle, then stopped himself and resumed fire. The urge to run toward the burning Humvee and see to his men was great. They’d been ambushed by a combined arms assault. They were caught with their fucking pants down. Kill the enemy. _Then_ rescue his wounded men.

Brad reached to key his mic to check the status of anyone still alive in the lead vehicle. The Captain beat him to it. There was no reply.

Even over the chaotic sounds of battle, Brad could hear the desperate and strident cries of Marines. They needed to know their friends in the burning Humvee were okay. He heard questions shouted, but no replies. The Captain shouted down requests to move forward and check the vehicle.

“You two, out of the victor,” Brad ordered Hasser and Stinetorf. They each grabbed their weapons and fell out the doors of the Humvee to take cover and return fire. “Garza. Can you identify any targets?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Gabe called back from the turret, during a lull in the roar of the Fifty Cal. “It’s just coming from behind that berm over there.”

“Light it up,” Brad shouted. “Make ‘em keep their heads down.”

When Garza launched a burst of fire that chewed up the berm, Brad opened the door of the vehicle and quickly made his way around to the rear. Hasser and Stinetorf were both firing over the hood of the victor, so Brad took up position at the back and looked for targets.

He was aware that the command vehicle had halted mere feet behind them. M16s chattered from all the victors. The roar of the second Fifty Cal joined the sound of Gabe’s gun and together they tore chunks of dirt away from the top of the enemy berm.

Brad loaded a 203 grenade into his launcher and lobbed it over the top of the berm. The MK19s atop the Humvees followed suit. Louder explosions indicated some of the Marines had lobbed Forty Mike-Mikes.

“See any clear targets, Staff Sergeant?” Cptn. Morel asked, suddenly crouched down at Brad’s back.

A part of Brad acknowledged a grudging respect for a platoon commander who would jump right into the shit, rather than cry into the comm.

“Negative, sir. Combined arms fire coming from behind the berm.” Brad’s answer was clipped as he stayed hunched over his weapon, firing three round bursts.

Brad’s training warred with instinct as he once again fought the urge to break cover and run toward the burning Humvee.

“Lilley, grab the SMAW and take a chunk out of that berm,” Morel barked into the comm. When he received Lilley’s acknowledgement, the Captain tried again to raise anyone in the burning Humvee.

The continued lack of response, on the comm and to verbal calls, settled like a stone in Brad’s gut.

“Permission to break cover and check status on the lead Humvee,” Brad said over his shoulder.

“Negative, Staff Sergeant,” Morel shot back. “Follow procedure.”

“Aye, sir,” he replied, unsurprised at the answer. The Captain was right. Brad would have given the same answer if he’d been asked.

A huge blast captured their attention. A cloud of dirt and debris and a large chunk missing from the berm told them that Lilley had successfully fired a rocket.

“I imagine we’re a little too danger close for an air strike, sir?” Brad asked rhetorically.

“Ya think, Brad?” the Captain quipped. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of getting’ my ass shot at. We need to launch a counter attack.”

“Roger that.” Brad agreed wholeheartedly, pleased with Morel’s initiative.

“You and I’ll take a team forward in an assault. The rest of the platoon will provide cover fire. When it’s clear, Gunny will take Stinetorf and a second team to the damaged Humvee to recover and treat casualties.”

Brad hesitated. He wanted to suggest that the Captain stay behind, under cover. He knew Morel was just enough like Nate that he wouldn’t send his men into any battle he wasn’t willing to fight himself.

“I concur, sir,” he finally capitulated. “Have the assault team rally up with us and we’ll step off from here?”

Brad listened as Morel issued orders over the comm. Rudy would coordinate suppressive fire. Lilley, with the SMAW, would stay with Rudy, as would Garza, Christopher, Chaffin and Trombley. When it was clear, Gunny would take Stinetorf, Jacks, Baptista, and Holsey to the burning Humvee.

Moments later, Stafford, Christeson, Hasser, and Espera were kneeling behind Brad’s Humvee, as they all listened to the Captain outline the battle plan.

On the Captain’s order, Rudy and his team lit up the berm, bombarding it with rockets, grenades, and fifty caliber rounds. The berm was decimated. As dirt was blown away, it revealed the combatants taking cover behind it. Brad and the others opened fire at any moving target they saw, rounds of five-five-six ripping easily through unprotected flesh.

“All right, we’re moving,” Morel shouted, over the deafening roar of their weapons fire. “On my mark. Three, two, one.”

As he counted, the team moved into position for a fast break from cover. They would rush the berm, eliminate any remaining hostiles, and secure the discarded weaponry.

Together, they all stepped away from the protection of the Humvee and into the road. Walking low and firing as they went, the team quickly made their way toward the berm. Rudy’s team had done considerable damage, and continued to provide cover by firing over them, and into the berm.

Brad and Morel were at the center of the line, Stafford, Christeson, Hasser, and Espera fanning out on either side of them. AK rounds landed all around them, zinged by their heads, and kicked up dirt plumes at their feet. The occasional grenade added to the chaos.

Brad knew he should be afraid. He was out in the open, an easy target. As usual, though, he felt calm, focused, and in control.

Beside him, he heard a dull thud. Morel grunted loudly, and went down.

 _Fuck._

“Hold up! Hold up! The Captain’s down!” Brad shouted as he dropped to his knees. There were two ragged holes in the body armor and blood was rapidly blossoming in the fabric.

Brad keyed his mic. “Hitman Two, Hitman Two,” Brad yelled, needing Wynn’s attention. “This is Two-One. Hitman-Two-Actual is down. Say again, Hitman-Two-Actual is down.”

The chaos of weapons fire erupted from his own lines as Rudy and his team reacted to Brad’s traffic. They were covering his retreat. Even as he heard Mike order him to evac the Captain back behind their victors, Brad was getting to his feet. He grabbed his M4 in one hand and Morel’s uniform collar in his other. He heard Poke coordinating the team as they provided cover for him to drag the Captain’s limp body across the dirt.

 When Brad was back around the far side of his Humvee, Mike and Stinetorf were both there to meet him.

“Two to the chest,” Brad said to Stinetorf, who nodded his understanding.

“I’ll go take those fuckers out,” Gunny yelled. “When we’ve secured the scene, Reyes and his guys will clear the downed Humvee.”

Brad barely acknowledged Mike as he and Stinetorf began to tear open the straps of Morel’s vest. The plates had been penetrated by two AK rounds that had struck him straight on, at close range. All around them, Marines asked questions that had no answers.

“What happened, to the Captain?”

“Will the Captain be okay?”

“How did he get hit?”

Their voices were frantic, filled with anxiety. Their distress and the press of their bodies crowded and smothered Brad. Sweat ran down from his hairline, burning his eyes and making the back of his neck itch. He wanted to claw off his Kevlar but that would be stupid, while they were still taking fire.

Calmer Marines intervened, clearing space around Brad and the wounded Captain. He breathed a little easier.

“Fuck,” Stinetorf raged. “I need your help, Brad.”

Brad tore his IFAK out of his webbing. After a quick search, he located the Captain’s kit. Ripping open the trauma kits from both packages, Brad took out the gauze rolls and the pressure bandages. Stinetorf did the same with his own IFAK. They set the QuikClot packets aside. Those may be needed when they finally managed to clear the burning Humvee.

He thought of all those times during OIF he’d been sure he was going to have to do this for Nate. Brad caught the fleeting scent of blood and his stomach turned.

“Don’t toss the wrappers from the field dressings,” Stinetorf said and Brad nodded his understanding.

He tore open the front of Morel’s uniform blouse, exposing his bloody chest and the two, gaping entry wounds.

“Toward you,” Stinetorf said, indicating the direction to roll the Captain to check for exit wounds. “Got one.”

That wasn’t good. One round had exited but a second was still inside. It had most likely ricocheted off of bone and tumbled through soft tissue, ripping and tearing all along its path.

Brad held Morel steady as Stinetorf placed the plastic from the  field dressing over the exit wound in his back, then shook out the dressing and placed it over the plastic.

“Okay, let him down.” Brad watched Stinetorf wrap the ends of the dressing around the Captain’s chest and tape the ends securely.

Blood still flowed freely from the two chest wounds. Brad could hear Morel’s wet and labored breathing even over the sound of the gunfire around them.

Brad had nightmares about this. Nate’s pale chest covered in blood from a gaping wound, green eyes staring blankly at the sky.

“The Captain? The Captain can’t be dyin’.” Someone knelt down next to Brad. He didn’t recognize the voice, it had taken on an unnaturally high pitch. “He was just talkin’. I just heard him on comms. He’ll be okay. Won’t he?”

Stinetorf leaned over and examined the two chest wounds closely. “Fuck! This one’s sucking,” he declared, indicating the higher of the two. Its location meant it had most likely torn up and collapsed a lung.

Brad grabbed one of the large rolls of gauze, ignoring the way his hands shook, and pressed it to that more severe wound. He covered one hand with the other, rocked up onto his knees and pressed down onto the wound, hard, with the heels of both hands. Stinetorf did the same with the second wound.

Brad watched the second hand on his watch tick off the time. It was the longest ninety seconds of his life. In his nightmares, he hadn’t been able to stop Nate’s blood from running out.

“Come on, man,” someone said, bodies shifting in Brad’s periphery. “Let ‘em work.”

“He’ll be okay, right? The Captain’ll be okay, won’t he?”

“You gotta let ‘em work.”

Brad was relieved when everyone backed off, giving him room to breathe.

They both sat back to check the bleeding. It looked like the wound closest to Stinetorf had slowed. Blood was oozing slowly into the gauze, rather than immediately saturating it.

The gauze under Brad’s hands was red and wet. Blood pooled between his fingers, running over, down his wrists and along Morel’s chest. It was just like his nightmare. At least it wasn’t Nate’s blood running out into the desert sand. He knew he’d hate himself later, for having that thought.

Swearing viciously, Brad grabbed a second wad of gauze and slapped it over the wound. He rose up to his knees, ready to press down hard for another ninety seconds.

“Know how to bandage a sucking chest wound?”  Stinetorf asked, positioning another plastic wrapper over the second hole, then covering it with a pressure bandage.

Sitting back, Brad helped Stinetorf to move Morel’s limp body so he could wrap the bandage around his torso.

“Here,” Stinetorf proffered a specialized bandage he’d pulled from the more advanced field aid kit he was trained to carry.

Brad peeled the backing from the three sides of tape and replaced the saturated gauze with the thick bandage. He pressed the adhesive to the skin on three sides of the wound, then together, he and Stinetorf rolled Morel to the side until they could secure the pressure bandage. They made sure to leave the untapped side of the bandage uncovered.

Stinetorf checked the Captain’s breathing again. “Better, but still not good,” he declared. “We need a CASEVAC. Now.”

Mike appeared suddenly, taking a knee beside them. “Rudy’s team retrieved four wounded from the Humvee. One’s pretty bad, we could use your help. How’s the Captain?”

“It ain’t good, Gunny,” Stinetorf answered. “But Colbert’s taking good care of him. We got a bird on the way?”

“Affirmative,” Mike replied. “Just a few mikes out.”

“You good, Staff Sergeant?” Stinetorf asked.

“Yeah, I got it.”

He nodded, then turned back to Mike. “Show me what you got, Gunny.”

Walt dropped down next to Brad. “Can I help?”

“Get me something to ball up underneath his feet and a sleeping bag or something to cover him with. I think he’s going into shock.”

“Yessir.”

Brad hesitated, afraid to glance at Morel’s face. Part of him feared he’d see dark blond hair and blank green eyes.

Walt was back, moments later, with Stafford in tow. Brad lifted Morel’s feet for Walt to stuff a rolled up matt underneath. Stafford draped an open sleeping bag over their Captain’s supine body.

When he finally looked at the Captain’s face, he was glad it was closed eyes and red hair that he saw.

Brad checked the bandages again. Then he pressed two fingers to Morel’s throat. His pulse was weak and erratic. The Captain’s breathing was even worse. It was shallow and wet-sounding.

Brad could just hear the sound of the helicopter rotors when Captain Morel stopped breathing.

“Fuck! Stinetorf, I need help, here!” Brad shouted, shifting to kneel at Morel’s head. One hand on the Captain’s forehead, the other tilting his chin up and jaw forward, Brad pinched Morel’s nose and started rescue breathing.

He tasted blood in the Captain’s mouth. If it had been Nate’s blood, Brad doubted he’d keep his shit together. He was really fuckin’ glad it wasn’t Nate he was struggling to keep alive.

Stinetorf reappeared, immediately checking Morel’s pulse. He listened as Brad breathed for the Captain.

“It sounds good. I don’t think there’s air in his chest. I just think he’s got a bad internal bleed.”

Brad wasn’t surprised.

The chopper’s arrival sounded imminent. It just wasn’t arriving fast enough to suit Brad.

“You gotta go with him, Brad,” Stinetorf was saying. “On the CASEVAC, you gotta keep breathing for him until a doctor takes over from you.”

“Understood,” he said, between breaths.

The medics on the helicopter were a well-tuned machine. They got Captain Morel rolled onto a stretcher, strapped down, and loaded onto the bird with barely an interruption in Brad’s breathing. Stinetorf gave them the run down on all five patients as Brad continued to exhale precious air into his platoon commander’s lungs.

He was hardly aware when the door slammed shut and the chopper lifted off.

Brad’s nightmare had never gotten this far. He had to keep Morel alive. There would be no sudden jolt into waking this time. There was only his training. Brad listened to the sound of his own breathing as it roared in his ears. In, he breathed again. Out, he blew into the Captain’s mouth, watching for his chest to inflate.

“We’re about five mikes out, Staff Sergeant,” a medic told Brad, after what felt like hours. He nodded his acknowledgment.

Suddenly, something wasn’t right. The Captain’s body posture, the way the air was flowing into his lungs, the sudden stiffness in his limbs. Brad’s heart hammered in his chest. He slapped two fingers to Morel’s throat and didn’t feel any feel pulse.

“Shit. I got trouble here,” Brad shouted to the Medic.

“Start chest compressions, Staff Sergeant,” the Medic said after a quick assessment. “I’ll take over breathing for you.”

As Brad counted out compressions for the Medic, he got a good look at the Captain’s face. It was pale. It was too pale. Morel’s normally bright red hair looked blond. His lips were blue. Brad kept up the chest compressions, even as he realized it was futile.

A Navy surgeon was on the chopper almost as soon as the skids touched the ground. He pressed a stethoscope to Morel’s chest. He checked the Captain’s pupils. When he checked the dressings, Brad noticed how saturated with blood they were.

“How long’s he been down?” the surgeon asked.

Brad checked his watch. He was shocked to see that ninety mikes had passed since Morel had been hit. He told this to the surgeon.

“Rescue breathing had been under way for fifteen minutes when we loaded the patient,” the medic took up the narrative. “Chest compressions were performed for five minutes with no spontaneous resumption of pulse.”

The surgeon nodded. “I’m calling it. You did everything you could, Staff Sergeant. These are excellent field dressings. He was just too torn up inside. Without immediate access to surgery, he just bled out.”

Brad had seen dead men before. Lots of them. Many he’d killed himself. This was different. Morel wasn’t torn apart. No limbs were missing. He didn’t have that empty, glassy stare of the dead. Instead, he lay limply on the gurney, his skin pale and waxy. His hair now as colorless as his flesh.

The Navy Corpsmen helped Brad out of the chopper. He watched them reverently cover Morel’s body and carry it into a tent. He let himself be led into another tent, this one packed full of medical supplies and several portable sinks.

“Have a seat, Staff Sergeant,” one of the medics said, pulling out a collapsible stool. “I’ll find someone to clean you up and we’ll get you a ride back to your platoon as soon as one’s clear.”

Brad sat heavily on the stool. He was surprised at the state of his uniform. He glanced at his hands and swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat.

He was bloody. Brad was bloody from neck to boots. The front of his jacket was stiff and looked as if a bucket of blood had been thrown onto him. Long streaks of blood decorated his trousers. Large splotches dotted his boots. His hands were a light russet color and it ran up his wrists to disappear under his sleeves. His fingernails looked caked with dirt, but Brad knew it was Morel’s blood.

It almost looked like he was the one who’d been shot.

“Staff Sergeant?” A woman stepped into the tent. She appeared to be a nurse. She approached Brad slowly, as if she didn’t want to startle him. Her insignia told him she was a Navy Captain. “I’m going to help you get cleaned up for your ride back to your platoon.”

Brad was no stranger to blood. This time, it just felt wrong. He wanted to protest that he could wash his own hands, but he realized they felt leaden. He couldn’t lift them.

“I’m Captain Arden,” the nurse said, picking up a large bottle of fluid and several gauze pads. She wet the pads with the fluid and began to rub at Brad’s hands.

“How come you’re not on a nice, comfortable hospital ship?” Brad asked. He didn’t care about the answer, but he also didn’t want to think about how much of Morel’s blood covered him.

“When my reserve unit isn’t being called up, I’m an ER nurse. This is where the trauma patients need me. They’re stable by the time they get to the ship.”

One question in and Brad didn’t know what else to ask her.

“Colonel Dale is contacting your Battalion to let them know about Captain Morel,” she continued into Brad’s silence. “When we get you a ride back to them, talk to your men about what happened on the chopper. Just tell the story when they ask.”

Brad looked at his now clean hands. His nails were still black. He wondered what it would take to put a call through to Nate.

The tent flap parted and a Corpsman stuck his head inside. “We got the Staff Sergeant a ride.”

“He’s ready to go,” Captain Arden replied.

Brad stood up and hoped his knees would hold him. “Thank you, Captain.”

The chopper ride back to Battalion HQ felt shorter. His company commander sat Brad down and had him type out his after action as soon as he arrived. No sooner was he done, than the Captain sat down with him and made him tell the story from beginning to end.

By the time he was done with the telling, his chest had loosened slightly.

“I think I can get you clearance for a call home, Staff Sergeant Colbert,” the Captain said suddenly.

This surprised Brad. He knew he should call his mom. Family would have heard about the ambush, no doubt Cara would have told them all. He should call his family and reassure them that he was unharmed.

Brad knew he wasn’t going to call his family. He needed to call Nate.

“Hello?”

Brad’s breath caught in his throat at the distant sound of the familiar voice. “Nate, it’s me.”

“Brad? Jesus Christ. Are you okay?” Nate’s voice held both relief and apprehension.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He wanted to reassure Nate, as much as himself. “You heard what happened?”

“Cara called me. She said Brent died?”

“Yeah. He did.” Brad closed his eyes, but he could still see the remnants of his nightmare blend with reality.

“Was anyone else wounded?”

“Four Marines in the lead Humvee. One of them lost both hands. You didn’t know any of them, though.”

“You’re okay, though?”

“Yeah,” Brad said on a heavy sigh, the rest of what he was going to say died in his throat.

“Brad, are you sure you’re all right?” Worry was back in Nate’s voice.

“I’m glad it wasn’t you,” Brad blurted.

Nate’s silence drew out and Brad thought he’d fucked up.

“It wasn’t me, what?”

“I’m glad it wasn’t you who bled out in that CASEVAC bird,” Brad elaborated. Speaking the confession was as painful as living the experience.

“Oh. Well I’m relieved it wasn’t you, either.”

“I was with him, Nate. He bled out under my hands. I tried.” Now that the words had started, Brad couldn’t seem to stop them. “We did everything right, but first he stopped breathing, so I had to go with him in the bird. We were almost there when he died.”

“Fuck, Brad,” Nate breathed. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“He was so pale, Nate. His skin was white. His eyes had practically no color. You know how red his hair was? It was fucking blond, Nate. There was more blood on me than in him when he died.”

“What can I do, Brad? How can I help you?”

“Just … talk to me. Hearing your voice reminds me it wasn’t you.”

“I’m fine, Brad. I was driving when I got the news about the ambush. I went and pinned a medal on Pappy’s chest, then we went to lunch and talked about you guys. We both wished we were there with you.”

“I don’t. I’m glad you weren’t.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

“No, you don’t,” Brad’s guilt and frustration boiled over. “I kept thinking how relieved I was it was him and not you. Nate,” he snapped. “I was happy that it was him because it wasn’t _you_.”

Nate’s pause was interminable. “No, Brad. You can be thankful it wasn’t me without being _happy_ that Brent died. You can be glad I’m okay and sad that he died. Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Brad sighed. Until he’d heard Nate’s words, he hadn’t realized he’d needed that absolution.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Brad?” Nate asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. How are you? Does your job still suck? Heard from any of those graduate programs you applied to?”

“I’m relieved that more of you weren’t injured in the ambush. Yes, my job still sucks. No, no answers, yet. You’ve got another six months on your rotation, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Brad answered, wondering where Nate was going with his questions.

“When you know when you’re going to be home, let me know. Okay? I’d like to get together and … talk about old times.”

“Yeah.” Brad really liked that idea. He’d get to see Nate. Touch him. Reassure himself that he really hadn’t bled to death on that chopper. “Thanks, Nate.”

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, echoing_dream! While reading my Parthenon prompt table, she became enamored with ways to use the Death of a Friend prompt. Our emails back and forth developed this story. While it would not seem to be a happy present, it is what was requested! Generously beta’d by flying_fox.


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